It Doesn't Work That Way
by LadiesMile
Summary: Oliver insists on knowing why Connor might go to jail. After realizing that he's not going to be able to wriggle out of it, Connor tells him the whole story.


**Author's Note** : As far as I'm concerned, any HTGAWM episode with fewer than two Connor-and-Oliver scenes is unsatisfying. Here's a second one that could have been in S02E05.

 **How to Get Away With Murder** is the property of ABC. I don't own any of the characters in this story.

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After the bizarre anticlimax with Wes in the storage locker, Connor spends another hour or so drinking with Michaela and Laurel. They try to laugh off Michaela's now defunct affair with Levi and Wes's wild assumptions about Rebecca's disappearance, but they're too frustrated and confused to find any of it very funny. Connor's clearly in no shape to drive, and the women drop him off before making their own ways home.

He staggers into the apartment, leans against the wall with his eyes closed, and dumps his coat and shoes on the floor. Turning around, he gasps when he sees Oliver sitting on the couch, next to the one dim light that's on in the living room. Oliver's obviously distraught, and Connor immediately fears that there's been bad news about his health.

All the work crap that's been eating Connor alive vanishes in a flash as he rushes to the couch. "Oh god. Oliver, are you feeling ok? You're white as a sheet." He takes Oliver's left hand in both of his, but Oliver calmly pulls it away, folding both of his hands on his lap and turning to face Connor.

"I'm fine. Well, as fine as I'll ever be, anyway." He smirks, and Connor launches into the litany he's been through dozens of times about how being HIV positive doesn't make Oliver damaged goods, but Oliver stops him. "I think we both know that you're the one who's not fine right now, Connor. You have to tell me what you meant today when you said you might go to jail."

Connor exhales, pushes his bangs off his forehead, and leans back into the couch. Not this again. Well, at least it's something he understands. He's not going to lie to his partner any more, but he's not going say anything that will drag the man into the criminal nightmare that his job had become.

"I can't, Ollie. I can't dump my problems onto you. God knows you have enough to deal with. I just hope I can be here to help you deal with all of it."

Having spent all evening preparing for this conversation, Oliver is unmoved by Connor's desire to protect him. The look on his face is grim, determined, and disappointed. Mostly, he's disappointed by Connor's predictable, lame response, but he's not thrilled by the fact that Connor looks and smells like he's been drinking all day either.

"It doesn't work that way, Con."

Connor's been slumped back on the couch with his eyes shut since restating his unwillingness to let Oliver get sucked into the Keating quagmire. He opens them and focuses on a missing corner of a ceiling tile. Instant sobriety isn't an option tonight, but he's young and strong enough to pull himself halfway together and can tell from Oliver's tone that he needs to do so. He sits up straight and looks at Oliver as calmly as he can.

" _What_ doesn't work that way?," he asks.

"Love."

Connor flinches as though he's just been struck in the solar plexus. How can Oliver make the word sound like an accusation? He wants to respond, but all he can manage is isolated words of one syllable: "… love … work … what? …"

"That's what we're supposed to be doing here, isn't it? You spent weeks persuading me to give _'us'_ another chance, then you said you still wanted me after I tested positive, then you moved in with me, and today you said you loved me. How can I believe any of it if you won't even tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Ollie, I tell you everything I can. I just don't want to get you in trouble."

"There's no such thing as love without trouble." Oliver smiles for the first time since Connor arrived. "Especially love of Connor Walsh."

He gets up and goes to the kitchen, returning with two glasses of water. He remains standing, sips from one glass, and puts the other on the coffee table in front of Connor.

"I'll make it easier for you." Staring down from a position of tactical advantage, he feels guilty about forcing this conversation while Connor's obviously exhausted and bewildered. But it has to be done. "Did you kill Sam Keating?"

Connor sits in stunned silence. He's unwavering in his resolve not to lie to Oliver any more, but there's no simple way to answer that question truthfully.

"That line about your being a drug addict was bullshit. Granted, you've obviously been drinking a lot today … I hope Michaela drove you home, by the way … but I assume that's for the same reason that you finally told me that you're worried about getting caught: Some noose out there is tightening around your neck. I've known drug users in my day, Connor, and you don't show any of the signs."

Connor couldn't help smiling. It was a relief to be out from under at least one lie. He'd never claimed to be a saint, but there had always been some sins he didn't indulge in, among them illegal drugs. He'd never liked the idea of Oliver's thinking he did.

"So it wasn't drugs that made you panic that morning. All I needed to do was a little Googling to find out that Sam Keating was last seen alive the previous day. When they finally found his body, it was mutilated and burned. You showed up here at six a.m. with bloodstains on your clothes, smelling of smoke. Before too long, your car disappeared, and you claimed it was stolen."

All this time, Connor had dreaded being questioned by the police about Sam's murder. Why hadn't it occurred to him that Oliver was probably a much better detective than anyone in the Philly PD?

"Did you kill him, Con?," Oliver continues. "Did you drive his corpse someplace where you could chop it up and burn it?"

Connor drinks the water, stands, and walks into the kitchen with Oliver just a few steps behind him. He puts the empty glass on the counter and leans over the sink with his eyes closed as Oliver says "I have to know." After a few moments, Connor turns around and nods.

"Would you make some coffee?," he asks quietly. "I need to clean up a little before we do this."

In the bathroom, he soaps his face and then splashes cold water on it. He reaches into the medicine cabinet for the toothpaste and is struck again by how full it is and how perfectly organized. Just a month ago, the most specialized and expensive thing in this bathroom had been papaya herbal soap. Learning Oliver's status had changed everything for them – for better and for worse. Now Oliver was insisting on learning the truth about Sam and changing everything again. He says that's how love works. Maybe.

Connor tosses his dirty shirt into the hamper and washes his underarms. He longs to pull one of Oliver's sweatshirts slowly over his head, revel in the scent, and connect to the only good and true thing in his life. But that's the whole point of this exercise, isn't it? He hasn't been truthful with Oliver, and now he's being forced to. So he buttons himself into a clean, stiff, white shirt and goes back into the kitchen to plead his case. If he can get through this without tearing them apart, there will be another bedtime ritual in the wee hours of the morning that may or may not end with his pulling on his lover's sweatshirt.

Oliver's putting cups, spoons, milk, and sugar onto the kitchen table. He stops and stares at the more presentable Connor framed in the doorway, but he doesn't smile or lighten his expression at all. The man he's pouring coffee for might be a murderer.

Connor sits, pours the milk, stirs, and takes a sip. "Wes killed Sam. But I'm complicit in the murder and could be convicted of it. So could Michaela and Laurel. Not to mention Rebecca if anyone could actually find and arrest her."

Oliver sits across from him but doesn't reach for the coffee pot. "Connor, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"You really should drink some coffee. It's a long story."

And he proceeds to tell Oliver the whole story. Or at least the parts of it that he knows. Why the university wanted Annaliese to defend Lila's boyfriend when he was suspected of murdering her. How they got involved in defending Rebecca when she was accused of the same murder. How they might have avoided this whole tragic mess if that idiot Wes had not fallen for the least sexually alluring girl in Philadelphia. ("Yes, Ollie, I know I'm not an expert on female sexual allure, but I don't have to be to know that any straight guy with half a brain would stay as far away from Rebecca Sutter as possible.")

He picks up the pace. Rebecca's forcing her way into Sam's computer. Michaela's pushing Sam over the bannister. Sam's attacking Rebecca. Wes's killing Sam with the goddamned trophy. Cover up. Freak out. Annalise's discovering that Lila was carrying Sam's child. Sam's sister's accusing Annaliese of killing Sam. Frank's hiding Connor's car. Annaliese's ex-boyfriend Nate's being arrested for the murder. Annaliese's ex-girlfriend Eve's getting Nate off. ("No, Ollie, I had no idea that Annaliese was bisexual, and I honestly don't give a damn.")

Oliver thinks that's the end, but Connor keeps talking, with manic energy at this point. Rebecca's disappearance. Asher's suddenly wanting to rat us out, even though he has no clue what we did. Bonnie's telling Asher that she killed Sam, thinking he'll believe her lie, because she's been bonking him for a while now. ("What can I say, Ollie, they don't seem to know how love works.") Eggs 911's turning out to be Rebecca's foster brother. And a drug dealer. No more orgasms for Michaela. No Rebecca's corpse in a suitcase, however. So now Annaliese wants …

"Enough! Connor, take a breath. My head is spinning."

Connor stops and breathes, shallowly at first but then deeply and slowly. He leans his elbows on the table and covers his face with both hands. Maybe he's about to cry. Maybe he's just about to collapse. But he's glad Oliver stopped him. He's done. He can't go on with this insane story.

They sit across the table from each other in silence for a minute. Eventually, Oliver asks Connor what he's going to do next.

"I don't know what to do," Connor says quietly. "I've been hoping the whole thing was behind us since Eve got Nate off, but I don't trust Annaliese. I can see why she'd want to protect Nate or Bonnie or even Frank, but why should she protect us? She doesn't even seem to like us. Except Wes. She's got some kind of soft spot for Wes; god knows why."

Oliver's still looking at him calmly and intently, but Connor can tell that he's disturbed and can't absorb another torrent of words. So he just repeats "I really don't know what to do next."

"Should we get you your own defense lawyer?"

It's a thought that had crossed Connor's mind, of course. "That might have been a good thing to do right after Sam was killed, but now …" He loses steam on the answer as he realizes exactly what the question was. Oliver's hand is on the table, and Connor lays his on top of it. He stares gratefully at the man he loves.

" ' _But now_ '?," Oliver asks. "Don't we need one now more than ever, given that Asher's stirred up a hornet's nest?"

"You said _'we.'_ You asked whether _'we'_ should hire a defense lawyer."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Oh please, Con. You can't possibly think I'd abandon you now. That's downright insulting after all we've been through." Tears fall from Connor's eyes, and Oliver doesn't have the heart to go on scolding him. "Come, let's sit on the couch."

Connor rests his cheek on Oliver's shoulder and his forehead against Oliver's chin. His tears fall intermittently for an hour, but he doesn't break into sobs or feel the panic that's been just below the surface ever since the night of Sam's murder. They talk meanderingly about whether to hire a lawyer, whether to tell Michaela that Oliver's been read in, and whether to try to do anything special on Saturday (which has by now officially begun) or just truly take a day off for the first time in forever. Just before 2 a.m., they admit that they're not going to come up with any answers and go to bed. Connor drifts into a light sleep, enveloped in Oliver's long arms, smooth skin, and vaguely tropical scent, all of which is more comforting than a sweatshirt.


End file.
